


Like Winter as a Face

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Cold, F/M, Memory, Romance, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Running hot and cold.





	

She’d packed the carpetbag hurriedly and it had not occurred to her to bring her woolen mittens; she imagined Virginia to be perpetually balmy, a far cry from the crisp autumn and bitter winters she was familiar with in New England. The first cold day, she had briefly thought _Oh well, I shan’t need them much anyway_ and then returned to her task. It hadn’t troubled her overly until she had had to leave Mansion House for a rare errand on a dank, raw day and hadn’t been able to bear squeezing her work-chapped hands into the one pair of fine kid gloves she’d brought with her. She heard the echo of her mother’s voice calling her as she stepped out the door, _May, you’ve forgotten your mittens again, come back here directly, miss_ but there’d been no gently scolding ghost at the threshold and so she’d only settled her basket more safely in the crook of her arm and gone on.

When she returned, she was chilled through and rued the mittens left behind, the last set a sober grey and not the bright cardinal red of her childhood. It seemed to take hours to get warm, hours when she must still work, serving the boys, consoling a tearful wife, making sure the mutton stew would stretch with Steward’s help. She found herself thinking of the glorious color coals took on in a grate, holiday punch with its rum and brandy heavy with spices and red-currants, the embrace of her old, downy bed, already warmed with the copper pan when she slipped in. It was late in the day before she felt herself again and she’d resigned herself to her cold hands, stiff and sore, a chilblain on her right forefinger smarting, as at least she was not shivering any longer. Jedediah had decided Private Murray couldn’t wait until the next day and had nodded at her to assist him; it seemed to take hours before the case was through, the man stitched and bandaged, snoring a little with the ether, but likely to make a good recovery. The orderly had taken the man back to the ward and they were left sorting the remnants of the surgery, Jedediah returning the instruments for her to sort into their basins, these to be wiped down with lye-soap, those to be boiled, the ones that needed no attention jumbled together. It was the hour or she was clumsy—he offered her a set of clamps and she grazed his hand with her own, startling him.

“Christ! Your hands are like icicles, Mary!”

She dropped the metal clamp in her confusion and if it wished to ring like a bell’s clapper, it was disappointed with its muffled thud against the oak floorboard. She tried to step back, to pull back her hand from his grasp but contrary Jed didn’t let go and moved closer to her so her hands were held entirely in his. His own were warm and strong and he starting chafing hers briskly, but she couldn’t stop the gasp at the discomfort of her red, chapped hands, the terrible intimacy of the moment, the memory of Gustav so similar, murmuring _Du bist so kalt, Marieke, lass mich_ , his smile fond as he studied her and she might let him.

“No? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to hurt you,” Jed said, his quick hands stilled but yet holding hers, his palm against hers something she could barely contemplate.

“They’re only a little raw… the weather and all the washing. I’ve been silly, I didn’t bring proper gloves with me and I had to go out today. You needn’t bother about me,” she explained, thinking she sounded twice as silly as she’d said.

“Haven’t you noticed? I like to bother you. In fact, it may be my chief delight in this miserable place,” he said with a grin, looking very young except for those dark eyes watching her, a man and not a boy at all.

“If I had any calendula salve left or even a pot of goose-grease…I suppose I’ll just have to muddle through,” she said, not taking up what he had said, suddenly shy with her hands still in his, his thumb stroking along her fingers, tracing the pulse at her wrist, his gaze making her blush. Her cheeks were warm, she couldn’t help thinking, probably as red as poppies. She dared not raise her eyes to his so she did not read the intention there, only felt the swift movement as he lifted her right hand to his mouth and pressed the softest kiss to the center of her palm. She hadn’t thought such a light touch could burn so, she hadn’t thought she would feel the way his beard was a little silky against her fingers, though not as fine as the curls at the back of his head that she’d carded through when he’d been ill and despairing. She had not thought so many, too many things it seemed and now she could not think at all but only wish for him never to stop this smallest caress.

“That’s better, I think,” he said after he’d guided her hand back down and let go, his touch reluctant where his regard was not. “Though I shouldn’t grudge you the goose-grease, if you were to find it. I think Steward would have designs on it though. You must take care, Mary, or you must let me-”

“Thank you, yes, I shall,” she interrupted; she could not let him continue speaking, she couldn’t find out what he meant. “I’m warm now, warm enough, I’ll do very well.”

He smiled at her again, so affectionate and approving, without even the hint of his usual cutting humor. He must be taking in her flushed cheeks, the way her lip trembled a little, the hand that curled to hold his kiss. She had never felt so much like a flame but she understood now how candlelight must know how well-loved it was, how cherished for dismissing the darkness, how carefully tended by the one who ignited it.

“Very well, Mary. Very well.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was in response to the prompt: icicles. I decided to go full bore romantic. Gustav says "You are so cold, Marieke, let me" but I apologize if the construction is off as I don't speak German. I will say the prospect of icicles in Virginia was quite a challenge!
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson, who did seem to write more about summer.


End file.
